


take me to the finish line

by occultine



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gothic, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt Nico di Angelo, Implied Nico di Angelo/Will Solace, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jason is a Dork, M/M, Protective Jason Grace, Sad Nico di Angelo, Top Jason, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-02 07:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16782307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/occultine/pseuds/occultine
Summary: Jason isn't sure why he keeps on lying, isn't sure he can stop, anyway, as Nico watches the tumbleweeds spin on and on and on, hands stained with blood only he can see.





	1. i. when the party's over

**Author's Note:**

> hello cx
> 
> what's this ? another fanfic that will probably never be finished ? oof ?
> 
> also, i have already posted this fic, (with like the same notes and everything yikes), but orphaned it soon after because ??? u know. but now i've decided to post it again because jasico ?? is ?? literally ?? my ?? life ????
> 
> (i know i just started a solangelo one but i have been getting a l o t of jasico feels recently and thus, this).
> 
> i have read through this like, once, so please point out any mistakes. my spelling is shitty, my grammar probably worse, and i appreciate all the help i can get whoops !?
> 
> also, please ignore the shitty little bit at rh start, im going to rewrite it guys, don't w o r r y.
> 
> also,, credits to the queen, lana del rey for the title of this fic (born to die) (her songs are just ,,,,,) and also, the other queen, billie eillish for the chapter title (also check her songs out whoop). ty
> 
> anyway, i think that is all; i hope you enjoy reading x

**_chapter one; when the party's over_ **

_when the party's over_

_and i'll call you when the party's over._

_and i could lie say i like you like that_

The music is loud in his head and the air hot on his skin. He weaves through the bodies, slick with sweat, intoxicated, his blond hair plastered to his forehead and arms folded over his chest. Music pulses, resonates through his ground, his feet, head throbbing and movements slurred, though sober and clean and everything a _Roman Praetor_ should be. 

The world is loud but seems so quiet underneath his fingertips.

Shouting- his name, a chorus of _‘Jason’,_ thudding through his chest like a heartbeat, only stronger, morals blurred with alcohol, as he slips through the crowd to where he can see light leaking through the cracks in the door, a welcoming contrast to the neon lights painting his skin. Jason nods to a few people in passing, though he figures they must be too distracted by the red cups in their hands to notice him. The heartbeat of the party pulses beneath his skin. 

(He waits, for a second, for someone to call him back, call his name, with sense acute, but as the pulse _thudds thudds thudds_ on like a constant, unbreakable mantra, he breathes in through his mouth, out from his nose, lifts his chin and redirects his mind).

As he slips through the doors, the cool air rushes over him like a tsunami, a torrent of the clipped, fresh atmosphere he hadn't realised how much he missed. Here, there are less people, them mostly clinging to the shadows and leaning against the walls of the Hall, skin hidden by long sleeves and jeans so different to the shirtless chests and tight little dresses inside. Jason offhandedly wonders what Reyna is going to say when she finds out someone spiked the punch (he doubts she will be surprised, honestly, probably already knows). 

He doesn't spare a glance to the lurking strays, anyway, and walks with his chin tilted upwards and strides long to where he figures Reyna will be residing, waiting, for him to return. His leather boots glow silver in the moonlight, dust swirling around them as he disturbs it. The heartbeat of the party becomes almost forgotten, dead, except for the muffled thumping of music and the singing of drunken teenagers leaking from the walls. (He supposes he can't blame them, for wanting a change, a sense of freedom from the set rules that arrives with being in the Legion. He wonders if he would join them if he was only a soldier, not a leader). 

The silver pull of the moon drags him from his thoughts like it does to the tides, a pulsing like the heartbeat of the party, and his blue _blue_ eyes he both hates and loves flit to the endless expanse of darkness, resting for a second on the full moon with a strange ache in his chest he can't place (almost as though he should know something he doesn't, an aching pull like the moon to the tides). The feeling isn't unfamiliar, but nor is it familiar, either, and Jason catches his breath before he can dwell on it too much, swallows it down like a pill and raises his chin again; like he was taught to, like he is supposed to. He, Jason Grace, Son of Jupiter and Praetor and leader of New Rome, can not show weakness, will not show weakness.

The streets are cobbled, the buildings either side of him made for the same grey stone that he grapples onto for a feeling of consistency, grounding, almost silvery in the moonlight and dusted with the fingerprints of thousands that will never walk down this street again. Deep, like what he can imagine an endless abyss to be, the purple of his t-shirt almost blends into the shadows, whilst the tan of his skin almost glows in the orange light cast by the swinging lanterns, a comforting thing he likes to appreciate even though he's not really sure why. 

The pulse under his wrist is steady, though the heartbeat of the world is far from it.

He walks for a while, through the streets, the near-silence comforting his headache from the _thud thud thud_ of the music, a bitter taste in his mouth when he thinks of it, the sweaty bodies, intoxicated minds. The calluses on his hands catch his focus, the little scars, the memories he doesn't know whether to love or hate but the memories he knows he will never forget.

There is a quiet in the city and a metronome under his feet.

Jason spots him through the darkness, legs dangling from the gem-studded roof of Pluto's shrine, back turned and almost faded into the darkness. The mess of dark hair hides beneath his hood, his pale fingers tapping on the gemstones in a strange kind of satisfying sound. Something silver glints on his hand but Jason doesn't look long enough to see past the silver moonlight dancing on his skin. 

He doubts he would have noticed him if he hadn't been singing, or humming, whatever, but it sounded beautiful and nice to listen to so he decided it didn't really matter. He spots him, and pauses, for a second, almost not wanting to disrupt the music but realising that standing there like an idiot is probably kinda creepy, so says, “you probably shouldn't be sat on there,” and watches the boy almost tumble from the roof and catch himself before he does (he thinks it would almost be comicable if not for the fear that flashes across his face).

There is a second where Jason thinks he won't move, but then his hands dart into his pockets, and spins around and crosses his legs, inclines his head to meet Jason with an expression he can't read through the darkness. “I apologize, _Praetor_.” He studies Jason for a moment, before removing a hand from his pocket and extending it above where his legs cross. In and instant, shadows curl around his skin, dark tornadoes, weaving like a needle and thread, then he melts away into the darkness, reappearing again at the foot of the shrine, expression unreadable, lit in the orange embers. 

Meanwhile, Jason, maybe a little shocked to finally see the boy move through the shadows after hearing the rumours that he _could_ , regains his composure, tilts up his chin and lengthens his stride, regarding the other with the air of undeniable authority unthinkable to refuse (because he is Jason Grace, Praetor of the Twelfth Legion and Leader of New Rome, and, like his father, powerful and undeniably dangerous).

He hadn't seen him- Nico di Angelo, Ambassador of Pluto- much, after he arrived with his sister to demand her a place within their legion, and even now, weeks onward, surprised by the haunted look in his dark _dark_ eyes, the same look he'll see everytime he looks in the mirror, the haze of melancholy clouding the usual sharpness. (He'll look at those eyes and have to remind himself that this boy is only thirteen years old, far too young for the darkness, that sadness, of the world he- they- have been thrown into to. He wonders what Lupa would think of him now, wonders if anyone has climbed from the dark abyss in which they have been trapped).

“Should I be surprised to not see you at the party, Ambassador?” Jason remarks, his tone light but still holding the authority, the power, the younger boy seems oblivious too. Nico scuffs his boots on the ground, clouds of dusts rising like ghosts from under his soles, a fitting simile, he supposes, for a son of Pluto, a child of the Underworld. He scoffs, shakes his head, but doesn't look up.

“Not exactly my thing,” he offers, shoulders hunched, guarded, as though he expects Jason to attack him, and he's left with a bitter taste in his mouth he can't place. “Too loud.” 

When Jason hums in agreement, Nico turns away and takes a few tentative steps in the opposite direction to him, shadows coiled around his feet, his hands, waiting for his command, waiting to engulf him. The thought makes Jason want to reach out and pull the son of Pluto into the light, though he isn't sure why, but settles for watching him fade away in the narrow streets. He doesn't call back, doesn't dismiss him either, he supposes, but, even with the younger boy's short stay, Nico has somehow become accustomed to their body language, the tone, the ones they have been taught to Hide Conceal Forget. 

“I'll see you around, Ambassador,” he says, quietly, perhaps _weakly_ but he would never admit that, unsure to why when he knows Nico won't hear him, won't answer his words. The cobbles stretch onwards, his blue blue eyes watch them fade.

(He wouldn't have guessed that would be the last time he saw Nico without a messed up memory, wouldn't have guessed he had ever seen him before with that fucked up memory).

-

-

The moon reminds him Thalia and Thalia reminds him of his disfigured childhood. (He loves Thalia but decides he doesn't love the moon so much).

-

-

He's too thin when Jason sees him next. Too pale, too bony, too _sad_. Too haunted by his past that his future is unspeakable, unimaginable, him not wanting to peek through his fingers and trying to fight the reality that is prising them away from his face, small fists clinging onto his last shred of innocence that Jason doubts still remains. He's too thin and too haunted and too _sad_. And the he tumbles from that bronze jar and Jason wants to scream. 

Sure he's seen a lot of broken eyes but nothing like _this_.

He can hear Nico's mutter, his heart-wrenching whisper of _Tartarus_ before he curls up on himself once again and flinches away from even Hazel's touch, and he can see his worry and sympathy reflected in her face, her golden eyes, her dark skin, pretty pretty features that he sees Frank look at with that mixture of adoration and love that makes him wonder if anyone will ever look at him that way (sure, Piper says she loves him but there's something strange about her stares that makes his skin itch, something different in those kaleidoscope eyes).

Nico glances at him with those dark, distrustful eyes full of something he can't read, something so fractured it has become intelligible, his small fists curled in his hoodie and lips cracked and bleeding and stained in red. (Something startles inside Jason, something he wants to remember but _can't_ , and the thought makes him want to cry but now is Not The Time For Weakness, so he looks away before the feeling can grow. It does anyway).

Then Percy and Annabeth fall- they fall, dead to the world but not to themselves, fall with limbs twisted and throats raw from screaming, messes of fear and sadness and wounds and-

(the image of Nico's haunted eyes burns behind Jason's eyelids, watching them fall- they fall, and he can't help but think maybe a little bit of them all fell with them, too)

-and imperfections that mark them.

Cupid. Next is Cupid, and Jason always knew the gods are cruel, seen them throw away lives like a burnt out cigarette, but nothing like _this_ ; the pain, the humiliation that shouldn't even be there but _is_ , and Jason wants to scream and gods and he knows the rest of the seven want to, too, (doesn't know if Nico wants to because everything about him screams that he's given up anyways. Jason finds that much _much_ sadder). He wants to scream his throat raw and lips red. Red like Cupid's eyes and red like his fury.

And Jason's seen people crumble, collapse, under pressure under grief under sadness, but nothing like _this_ , crumble under a outdated humiliation that makes Jason want to scream again, at the world for being so cruel and the Fates for making it that way.

He can see the dark edges of Nico's brows fall, slip from a scowl to helplessness to a scowl again, see the little droops of his lips that are often the only colour on his figure, a dusting of pink, like the one that rides high on his cheeks, when he makes Jason _promise_ , makes him promise not to tell anyone because he's so scared of their rejection, so blinded by his own shame that he can't see past it, won't dare, to peak past his fingers. And Jason does, he promises, and keeps that promise like an unbreakable oath bound by blood because he knows it isn't his place to say anything, so he won't (he'll just keep on wishing that Nico can accept himself, love himself enough to let other people in; wants to scream at the Fates for Nico's misfortune and scream at Nico that he has nothing to he ashamed of). 

Jason wants to do a lot that he doubts he will ever do. 

Then, the House of Hades rolls around, and he's not sure if he has seen anyone fight with such desperation as Nico does (but that doesn't mean much, he figures, because he can't remember much except for the last few months. Still, he's a little in awe about the way Nico slices that dark sword of his through the hoard of monsters, all calculated moves and curling darkness). He wonders if Nico knows how deadly he is, wonder what he himself looks like when he fights. Percy is a tsunami and Nico a nightmare and he wonders if he's anything like a tornado, anything like the air that chokes him, the father that controls him.

After that, Jason doesn't see him much, because he leaves with curt nods and sad smiles and then transports a fucking _statue_ across the world with a soon-to-be dad and a fierce warrior. But still, Jason can imagine those eyes as if a photograph, dark, haunted, broken like fragments of light, and he can almost feel that ghostlike touch against his skin when the wind whips around it. The smell of strong coffee and a taste of bitterness- everything, everything he can't explain because he can't remember when he became so hype-aware of the son of Hades-

(can't remember much, really, but doesn't dwell on that too much)

-but doesn't dwell too much, either, takes to devoting his attention to Piper and saving the fucking world _again_. 

Giants. He fights giants beside him own father, watches the world almost end from a fucking _nosebleed_ and almost burns in a flaming ship. He fights, because that is what he does and that is what he knows, and once again he wonders if he fights anything like the storms that never seem to touch him.

When, weeks later, torn and tired and just so _exhausted_ , he sees _him_ again, he looks so hauntingly familiar to when he escaped from the bronze jar, fresh from Tartarus, fresh from Hell, but this time his hands are somehow made of shadow and his eyes burning with fire, an adrenaline coursing through his veins that Jason knows will leave him lost when it is gone, felt it too many times himself and see the aftermath too many times in glassy eyes. (He thinks there's a word for it, but isn't too sure and doesn't want to ask). And he looks more powerful, despite the declining health and smoky hands, but he catches a bitter laugh and looks around at the right moment and sees an almost mad glint in those dark dark irises, the burning darkness.

As if in a haze, like a dream far too sharp, the Battle starts and ends, and it's hard, _fuck_ it's hard, and Jason can't remember when he last felt this much adrenaline pumping and tainting his blood, and again he watches Nico fight with that dark sword of his, almost just a blur of darkness, so young and yet fighting with the ease of a professional.

(But he's still too thin and too tired and Jason tries not to notice the way his hands flicker away or the way he can almost fall through a monster).

Then boom crash and the threat of Gaea is gone, but so is Leo and the empty feeling in his chest begins to burn again, back again with scorching flames and smoke that corrupts his weak _weak_ lungs. The burning is back, but the fire in Nico's eyes is dwindling, and when he tells Jason he's _staying_ he's not sure whether to laugh or cry.

(He chooses to laugh because he is Jason Grace, son of Jupiter, saviour of the world, and he Does Not Cry, Can Not Cry, Will Not Cry).

And so the days pass; he watches the sun rise and the sun fall, the sunrises and the sunsets, gold paint his skin and moonlight stain his lips. Piper is there, alongside him, a tan arm around her shoulder with hers around his waist, and they will sit in a silence that only he seems to find uncomfortable, the unspoken words of _I love you_ hanging between them and watching the days slip away. 

(Nico slips away, too, leaves more often, and by the end of the month he is spending days on end away in god-knows-where with god-knows-who, returning with his sad eyes dark and pink lips drooped in the corners). 

So he has eyes like shattered glass, hair like a raven's feathers and words like broken windows, all piercing, all dark, all sad. And he has sad smiles, the ones which look as though he is going to cry once you look away, and his lips are often stained, with red from which may be blood or wine, all screaming, all dark, all sad

The days pass. The feelings don't.


	2. ii. too good to be good for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the eyes that watch him from the fields to not blink.
> 
> the eyes do not blink.
> 
> do not blink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi.
> 
> sorry that this chapter is quite short yikes. im hoping to lengthen the next ones, hopefully and i hope u enjoy. 
> 
> x
> 
> (chapter title creds to 'too good', by troye sivan).

_too good; troye sivan_

_too good to be good for me_

_to bad that that's all i need_

_liquid guilt is on my lips_

_i’m wasted on you_

_drinking with your demons,_  
you dance,  
the world burning,  
smoke in your lungs,  
poison on your tongue,  
a blush riding your cheeks,  
a laugh bubbling on your lips,  
(you can't imagine a life without them). 

_gambling with your sadness,_  
you bet,  
and you lose,  
and you give,  
with a thousand scars on your thighs,  
a thousand eyes on your skin,  
(you can't imagine a world without them). 

\--

Jason tells him he cares about him when the sky is dark and Nico can't place the pain in his chest. 

“Hazel's not the only one who cares about you, y'know,” is what he actually says, but Nico knows Jason well enough to know what it means, hates that he knows that and hates what it means. Hates that Jason cares about him, hates that somehow along his twisted, fucked up past, they because friends, when they are so different, _him_ and his perfect hair and perfect face and Perfect _Life_ , and then Nico with all levels of messed up shit. 

So Jason says he cares about him and Nico doesn't want to breathe, doesn't know if he can.

(He takes to staring up at the stars and swallowing down the bile in his throat. People like Jason aren't supposed to be friends with people like himself; the universe isn't supposed to work that way).

-

-

He wanders aimlessly; like a ghost sick of death, a devil sick of sin, the pavement underneath his steady feet cracked and splattered by gum, rain, alcohol at some point, probably. The swaying of the crowd lulls him, and he joins them, almost, half-way transfixed already by the hum of talking that sways to their thudding heartbeats, the ocean of bodies intoxicated with themselves.

The ground shifts under his feet, weeds peeking through the cracks as he sways- sways along to a steady beat on steady feet, soles of leather and souls of death against the stone; a constant _thud thud thud_ like a pulsing heartbeat to the waves.

Nico stares at the back of a stranger, slips his hands into his pockets and moves along in the current, another faceless wave in the sea of people, passing shops upon shops of faceless mannequins with jealous eyes on their unseeing ones. Smudges of ruby red streaks their cold cold lips, black on their lashes, rings on their fingers; then they move from their phone cameras and jump and drown themselves in the sea.

The sheathed blade on his hip slices into his skin. He doesn't bleed. Neither will they.

It has been a week, maybe two, maybe a goddamn _month_ but he's not too sure, since the end of the world ended, the earth was mulled back to sleep and everything was happy fucking ever after again (another scene he shouldn't be in, another time the universe has made a mistake. And he's so tired, so fucking _exhausted_ now, of the universe, the Fates, whatever, fucking him over again and again and _again_ ).

Everything has become a fairytale again, a stupid fucking fairytale where he doesn't _belong_. He wonders how long he can dance with the villain, drink with his sins.

He thinks, maybe, he could slip away, spend a longer time away, distance himself from all those close to him, gradually remove all contacts and start new. He could change his clothes, his hair, sweep away the broken glass in his eyes; change his mood, his aesthetic, switch his film of some creepy fucking goth into something, _better_. (He could delete himself from their lives so _why doesn't he_? It's probably safer than fooling around with his past, anyway). 

The thought nags at him, the temptation clawing at his skin, and he mulls it over as he sways to the current of the ocean, faceless faces blurring into nothingness, skin to close, too warm, too unfamiliar. 

He can think about it a thousand times but nothing will distract him for the fact that he's a _coward_ and _cowards don't change_.

\---

He wanders until the wee hours of the morning, the sky dark and the shadows darker. He's not too sure where he is, exactly, some small town in Texas with too many churches and strange billboards he feels like he's seeing again and again and again-

The tumbleweeds spin.

The tumbleweeds spin and he sits in a booth in an empty diner, the neon lights dim and flashing signs broken. A tell-tale sound, the _click-clack_ of waitress’ heels clip against the dirty floor, as Nico sips his coffee and leaves the bitterness stinging his tongue. 

Broken only by dirty windows and the occasional locked door, the walls are a faded, cracked shade of ugly green and the ceilings an unsettling cream to match. The booth seats are ripped, faded, brown; the tumbleweeds spin on. Lights splutter, sometimes, drenching the diner in an occasional bout of darkness lit only by glaring neon lights that hurt his eyes, splutter like the coffee machine had and the shitty TV before it became static (static and grey like his thoughts do somethings, an annoying buzz in the corner of his mind).

Taps his fingers against the mug- he taps his fingers against the mug to the same rhythm the waitress’ heels _click-clack-click-clack_ , and through the heavy darkness he can still see the tumbleweeds spinning; they spin and spin and spin. 

“Can I get y'all anythin’ else?” 

Her scratchy words sober him, and the tumbleweeds spin and his head turns lazily to the waitress. There she stands- she stands a few feet away from his chipped booth in her weird yellow and white uniform with her Texas drawl still ringing through the diner. Her heels look as though they will snap any moment, her eyeliner smudged and mascara streaking and lipstick staining her teeth. 

He notices her half-vacant eyes shifting to something over his shoulder and the diner stays empty and the tumbleweeds spin. Rings through the diner- her Texas drawl still rings through the empty diner, and her dull eyes stay watching something distant over his shoulder. Stringy brown hair slips from her messy ponytail, chills dance up his spine and a fan whirs distantly and the tumbleweeds spin on through the morning.

Still, he shakes his head and let's the coffee bite at his throat.

Eventually, he takes his leave, when the itching under his skin becomes overwhelming and the waitress’ gaze doesn't stray from that little point past his shoulder (he is certain she isn't just watching the tumbleweeds spin on and on and on.

Only when he pushes open the squeaky door does she look at him with those dark-ringed, dull _dull_ eyes, the yellow and white of her tatty uniform fading into the stuttering lights; her Texas drawl lingers- lingers like it had always been there, will always stay there).

The dead grass crunches under his feet and the sun peaks over the horizon.

Off (?) shades of yellow and orange and red paint his skin, so different to the gold he is used to, dampened through the haze and clouded air. In the distance, dimly reflection the strange hues, an undisturbed lake sits on the blurred horizon, and Nico thinks back to the man with the bald, shiny head that looked at him will dull, vacant eyes and muttered, “ _no one swims in the lakes_ ,” and turned away to watch the tumbleweeds spin and spin. ( _No one swims in the lakes_ , echoes through his mind. _Swims in the-  
no one  
lakes  
can I get you  
no one_).

Silhouetted against the rising sun, the dark outline of another church glints in the strange, dusty air, and with a sickening churn in his stomach he's reminded of the similarity of this air to the air- the air there. Swallows hard, he diverts his thoughts but they linger like the Texas drawl in the stuttering diner and the tumbleweeds spin and spin and spin on. 

So Nico gives the fields a last glance, the endless fields of corn and other plants he doesn't care to identify, the dusty roads just as endless, before he turns away from the horizon and slips into the shadows cast by another billboard with the letters _J E S U S_ printed across it. The cold is welcoming, the darkness familiar.

(The tumbleweeds spin on and on and on, and the eyes that watch him from the fields don't blink). 

\---

(The trees are all sad and the butterflies _dead_. The leaves change colours, quickly- too quickly, he thinks, and so do the shadows under his eyes (darken darken darken, do not rest), until the leaves are all brown and the shadows deep like the ocean that dances with the moon. He doesn't question it).

Butterflies dead, wings ripped, fairies dead and treas sad and dead _dead_ eyes staring at his skin. House abandoned, though the scarecrow is fresh, it's heavy head tilted towards him as he drives past for what he's sure is the millionth time. The scarecrow stares on and he's sure the head has turned (the tumbleweeds spin without the wind, spin on and on and on), and it's dark _dead_ eyes follows his car, the dusted black like the yellow haze in air. It smells of blood and guilt. He doesn't question it.

(when he drives past the next time the scarecrow is missing an arm and a crow sits idly on its shoulder; the eyes do not blink).

\---

Nico is good at anger. He's good at anger and spite and jealousy but he's more than shitty at calm and peace and love, so when Jason looks at him with those blue blue eyes dripping with _worry_ , Nico almost turns away and travels back to the-

(he wants to call it his home, but he knows that while there is still a woman that hates him and a unreadable father still there, it will never be more of a home that these fucking camps are)

-Underworld. He thinks about it for a second as the word coward slips into his mind. 

( _“Can I get y'all-_

_no one swims in-_

_coward-_

_the eyes do not-_

_coward-_

_blink._ ”).

“I'm fine,” he mutters, instead, eyes on his feet as he looks anywhere but at Jason, anywhere but him and his nagging, worried blue eyes. The word _coward_ rings through his thoughts in a heavy Texas drawl. 

But then Jason grabs his wrist and although he doesn't flinch, the spike of fear that splits through him is unavoidable and irrational and _stupid_ (he wonders if that'll ever go away. He hopes so; he expects not).

Nico keeps his eyes on his feet but can still see the frown of Jason's brows. He waits, expecting a lecture, maybe, about his health and apparent 'self destructive tendencies’ (as the blond puts it), but Jason stays silent so he worries his bottom lip between his teeth and peaks up from underneath his lashes.

“Are you mad?” His voice is quiet, and for a halting second he doesn't think Jason has heard him, hates himself and takes a step backwards. 

In front of Nico, fingers on the bridge of his nose, Jason sighs and digs his heels into the dirt. “No,” he admits. “Just a little disappointed, that's all.”

The silence that hangs in the air is heavy and Nico swallows down the bile in his throat, hates himself for it and-

(hates a lot of things really, but one of the top ones is making Jason Grace _disappointed_. People like him aren't supposed to be friends with people like him; the universe isn't supposed to work like that)

-and drops his gaze back to his feet. Maybe he's done a lot of brave things but that doesn't change the fact that he's still a _coward.  
(“in the lakes-_

_no one swims-_

_no one-_

_do not blink.”)._

“You should probably go see Will,” Jason says, and then brushes past Nico and leave him with a lump in his throat and a stinging in his eyes he hates hates hates. (He hates the stinging in his eyes and the way he wants to disappear again- hates how weak he is. Hates a lot really but not as much as himself right now).

He reaches out, catching Jason's wrist in his nimble fingers and tries not to dig his fingernails into his palms. “Jason, wait,” he says.

Surprised (which Nico tries not to be offended at, but it's _hard_ when he's _already trying so hard_ ), Jason spins on his heels and glances to Nico fingers around his wrist. “You know-”

“No, Jason, let me fucking speak,” he hisses, albeit he sounds harsher than he intended to, so adds, “please,” quickly afterwards. “I'm trying, honestly. I swear I'm trying but-”

“How do you expect me to believe that when you do something like this, Nico? Four days, okay? Four days you were just, _gone_ , and I was so _so_ tempted to call Hazel because I didn't know that you would be coming back. How do I know that next time you run off again, you'll come back? It's not _fair, Neeks_ , and you _know_ that?”

Grip slack, Nico's arm falls back to his side and he bites his lip, blinking back the tears that blur his vision and _why does he always cry all the_ time? (And he's good at sadness, he's good at sadness but now the way he's good at anger and bitterness, doesn't know how to handle sadness, like he does with anger, bitter, spite).

“Why the fuck do you even care?” He snaps, glaring at Jason's strange expression from under his lashes, tilting his head forward so his bangs falls over his face to hide the pink ringing his eyes. “You _don't_ , okay. I- I _won't let you_!”

(He knows he sounds like a fucking ten year old, but what is there else to say, how else we he tell Jason's stupidly caring face that he _shouldn't_. Good people like Jason aren't supposed to be friends with bad people like Nico; the universe isn't supposed to work that way).

“You don't _control_ me, Nico? You can't control what I feel, who I care about.” 

( _“No one swims-_

_no one-_

_blink-_

_coward-_ )

“You're too _good_ , Jason.” He laughs bitterly, the sound scratching his throat and he sees Jason's face scrunching up in the white sunlight that the shade of the big oak tree doesn't obscure. “You're too good for someone like _me_ , don't you get it. People like you aren't supposed to be friends with people like me. You're supposed to live out your life with a pretty girlfriend in a nice neighborhood and have kids and-”

Jason shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “What are you _talking_ about. What makes you so different?”

“You just don't get it, Jason? I have _so much baggage, okay_. I have so much _baggage_ , and I'm not going to give that to me you, too. I won't allow it; you shouldn't either. You're far too…” He pauses, noticing the way Jason's face falls before scrunching up again in frustration, he thinks, slowly digging in his nails into his palms and ignoring that sharp sting of his hands. “.. _.you_.”

Jason regards him, the silence settling between only broken by the wind whistling in his ears and the leaves crunching under his tapping foot, the campers muted, birds _silent, and gods_ -

-(Nico wonders if the ground will start cracking, his fingers to fade away into the shadows at the anxiety he can feel bubbling in his chest, like melted sugar and butter clinging to his insides as it bubbles and blisters his chest, so sickly _sweet_ that it makes him feel sick to his stomach. He figures Jason won't appreciate him puking at his feet).

-he doesn't know how much long he can keep this up without cracking, too. But finally, Jason speaks; he says, “you’re an idiot, Nico,” and opens his arms expectantly. 

“Fuck you, Jason,” Nico mutters as he tentatively steps forward and wraps his arms around Jason's waist, his head just barely reaching the older teens neck, the weight of Jason's arms resting on his back.

“I don't care about your baggage, Nico. You know that; no real friend would.”

(Friend. The word tastes strange on his tongue).

The light dances on and on over their skin and the eyes that watch from the shadows do not blink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, and please leave any comments and kudos are always very appreciated !!! 
> 
> (i tried to make the first parts gothicy but im pretty sure it has failed whoops. also, it is a lot of tumblr-prompts and i've never actually been to texas or even the states tbh. i'm british, if u couldn't tell lmao).
> 
> i haven't really read through it, so sorry for the mistakes welp

**Author's Note:**

> well, thank you for reading, i guess.
> 
> as always, please don't hesitate to point out any mistakes and/or leave constructive criticism. feedback is v appreciated
> 
> i'm going to try and multi-chapter this, and updates /should/ be every sunday, hopefully, and, because i haven't done an outline at all woops, this could go anywhere. please don't hesitate to dm me on wattpad (occultine), tumblr (occultine), any plot ideas etc (you will get credit, of course).
> 
> well, anyway, i have rambled too long. thank you for reading, and comments and kudos are always v appreciated cx
> 
> //also big thank u for user @saaf because i saw your comment and that is what made me post it again ?? and big hugs to all that left kudos, too :))//


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